It started to rain.
This was what I had been waiting for. The ladies on the dais were shrieking with alarm in case their dresses shrank or their face-paint ran. The group of slaves who were supposed to raise a canopy above them were making a splendid mess of it. I could see Helena losing her temper, as she did when other people became disorganised and it was not her place to interfere. Knowing she would excuse me if I saved the situation, I leapt up on to the dais, grabbed one of the supporting poles, and helped the slaves to lift the canopy.
The women we were protecting were the legate’s wife of the XIV, Maenia Priscilla, an older more sensible body who must be the mother hen of the I Adiutrix, Helena Justina, another visitor who was a schoolfriend of the mother hen, and Julia Fortunata. Presumably she had been invited because her status was too high to ignore and her position in the life of the late Gracilis too low to acknowledge. In any event, Maenia Priscilla, clad fetchingly in mourning white, was making the most of her role, while Julia took every opportunity to pet and comfort her. No public statement was to be made about the ex-legate’s non-exemplary behaviour, but his women had both been told. As a result neither felt obliged to mourn him too sincerely. I was pleased to see that widowhood, or its equivalent, was bringing out the best in them. Their bravery was wonderful to watch.
It stopped raining. The ladies relaxed. We furled the temporary roof, then I crouched down at Helena’s side, ready to spring to attention on awning duty if disaster struck again.
I thought her ladyship shot me a curious look.
Out in the field they were reaching a climax in the elaborate ceremonial. Cohorts of auxiliary cavalry came out to stage a mock battle. The I Adiutrix now came into their own, for the XIV had not yet had their lost Batavians replaced, which at last gave the I an opportunity to sneer as they fielded theirs. These were Spaniards I think. Their small sturdy horses were well matched, and tricked out in full parade regalia with winking discs on their leatherware, gilded eye pieces, and huge roundels on their chests. The riders wore indigo uniforms that contrasted with the brilliant scarlet saddle-cloths. They swept round in ceaseless whorls and circles, shaking feathered spears and brandishing round shields with pointed bosses centred on exotic patterns alien to Rome. The air of mystery was compounded by their formal parade helmets, which covered their faces like calmly expressionless theatrical masks. For half an hour this noble equestrian chorus rode the windy parade-ground like haughty gods, then they suddenly swooped out through the great gates to the Via Principia, leaving all the spectators bereft and dismayed.
Warm drinks were supplied on the dais.
Not before time.
* * *
I wondered rather pitifully whether I should speak to Helena now. She was enjoying her refreshments, so I chose to let the moment pass.
“There’s Julius Mordanticus!” Helena called to me, waving at the local crowd. One of the huddled group of pointed hoods raised an arm back to her. He and his friends were happy. I had been interviewed by the provincial governor about the ceramics franchise fraud, and afterwards I had been able to bring the local potters good news. “I meant to say,” Helena told me guiltily, “while you were in Augusta Treverorum he gave us a present of a superb set of dinner bowls. What a pity,” quipped my insensitive sweetheart, “we have no dining-room to use them in!”
We never would have now. I looked away.
The pause in formalities was lingering as people clutched hot refreshments tightly, trying to warm their hands. Helena continued chattering. “Is it true when Xanthus shaved the rebel, you brought the trimmings away in a little bag to impress the Emperor?”
“It’s true.”
“How did you persuade Xanthus to take part?” Xanthus would do anything for me nowadays; I had given him a genuine aurochs’ horn. If he had it made into a drinking-cup, he would drown himself, it was so big. I had told him to take great care, because apart from the one I owned myself, there would be no repeats. “He seems an odd choice to supervise a rebel,” hinted Helena.
“Xanthus is looking to settle down and make his pile in a town where Nero’s name will give him massive prestige, but he can rise above his past existence as a slave. Augusta Treverorum fits: refined, but not too snobbish. He’ll be shaving the cream of Belgican society on his portico, while poor women queue up at his back door to have their golden tresses sheared to make expensive wigs for society dames in Rome.”
“I don’t think I approve of that.”
“They could sell worse things, love. Anyway, I bet our lad with the puce shoelaces will end up a substantial citizen, donating temples and civic columns with the best.”
“And Civilis?”
“Xanthus gave him an ebony rinse to stop him being recognised. He’ll be safe from assassins, and secure for us. The barber will be visiting his house to shave him every day. If Civilis absconds, his disappearance will be noted immediately.”
It was the perfect bail. And the unfortunate chief would never get a chance to rabble-rouse, now that he would be battened under hot napkins listening to gossip most of the day.
Helena smiled. I loved her smile. “Marcus, you’re wonderful.” The mockery was fairly delicate.
Out on the parade-ground the provincial governor, his head covered, was preparing to take yet another set of auguries. He was assisted on behalf of the XIV by their senior tribune, Macrinus, who was standing in for the dead legate. I could see Maenia Priscilla getting excited. She stood no chance now. Ambition had superseded all else. Given this chance to show off as a substitute, Macrinus was rapt in pursuit of his public career.
I did not need to peer at a sheep’s sickly liver to know the omens were bad for me. “What’s the matter?” asked Helena quietly.
“There is something I have to say to you.”
“Well then, you had better get on with it.”
The standard-bearers were carrying their poles to the central arena. Giant men with bearskins or wolfskins, the animals’ heads resting upon their helmets, and the paws crossed on their chests. They walked with their sombre pace to surround the governor, then speared the ground with the stout spikes of their carrying poles. The spikes held—the gods were in favour. So there the standards of the XIV Gemina Martia Victrix stood. The golden eagle with the legion’s number. The individual markers for each cohort of foot-soldiers, and the fringed square flags used by the cavalry. The Emperor’s portrait taking pride of place. Battle honours from half a century. Their statue of Mars. And now, presented to the legion before the entire assembled company palm outwards as a symbol of either power or friendship, their mighty Hand.
Still kneeling beside Helena, I stared hard at the ceremony. “I have finished my mission. It’s time for me to leave. I’ve been thinking. Some women can achieve more good for the world than men.” Her finger was tickling the back of my neck; in a moment she would know it was inappropriate and she would stop. I forced myself to speak: “Helena, for the sake of Rome you ought to marry Titus. When you answer his letter—”
A blaze of trumpets interrupted me.
Brilliant. My life’s big gesture shattered by a misplaced musical blast.
The standard-bearer with the Hand received the governor’s approval, then began to pace through the entire legion to display Vespasian’s gift. He approached the cohorts. At each one their particular signal party went through a short routine of acknowledgement before he set off to the next. Throughout his slow march all the trumpets in the legion brayed.
Helena’s hand lay completely still against my neck. To lose her sweet consoling touch would be unbearable. But I was tough. I would do it. I would make myself. If Helena Justina chose the Empire as her duty, I would send her back to Rome alone, while I opted for permanent exile, roaming the wilder edges of the Empire, or even beyond it, like a miserable ghost …
Just as I was about to spring from the dais and depart like a hero, Helena bent down to me. Her hair brushed my cheek. Her perfume enveloped me in a cinnamon haze. H
er lips moved softly right against my ear: “You can stop looking so pathetic. I wrote to him the day you left Colonia.”
Helena sat back. I crouched where I was. We watched the standard-bearer stamp his way decisively round two more infantry cohorts, then the trumpets stilled.
I looked up. Helena Justina tapped me gently on the nose with her knuckle, the one wearing the silver ring I had once given her. She did not look at me. She was gazing across the parade-ground with an expression of refined interest like any other high-born lady wondering how soon she could go home. Nobody but me could realise how obstinate, and how beautiful, she was.
My girl.
The chief standard-bearer of the XIV Gemina represented their senior tribune with the Emperor’s Iron Hand. It was a handsome item, two feet high, and the man in the bearskin must be breathless from the weight. An armourer had regilded the chips in its decoration, but I happened to know that it had a dented thumb where I had bashed it against a bedstead in some crummy travellers’ doss-house on my journey across Gaul.
“Are you staying with me, Helena?” I dared to ask meekly.
“No choice,” she said (after pausing to think about it). “I own a half-share in your samian dinner service, which I don’t intend relinquishing. So stop talking nonsense, Marcus, and watch the parade.”
ALSO AVAILABLE BY LINDSEY DAVIS
The Course of Honour
The Falco Series
The Silver Pigs
Shadows in Bronze
Venus in Copper
Poseidon’s Gold
Last Act in Palmyra
Time to Depart
A Dying Light in Corduba
Three Hands in the Fountain
Two for the Lions
One Virgin Too Many
Ode to a Banker
A Body in the Bath House
The Jupiter Myth
The Accusers
Scandal Takes a Holiday
See Delphi and Die
Saturnalia
Alexandria
Nemesis
Falco: The Official Companion
Rebels and Traitors
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE IRON HAND OF MARS. Copyright © 1992 by Lindsey Davis. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Davis, Lindsey.
The iron hand of Mars : a Marcus Didius Falco mystery / Lindsey Davis.—1st U.S. ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-64729-2
1. Falco, Marcus Didius (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Rome—History—Vespasian, 69–79—Fiction. 3. Private investigators—Rome—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6054.A8925I75 2011
823'.914—dc22
2011000077
Originally published in the United Kingdom by Hutchinson
First published in paperback in 1993 by Arrow Books, The Random House Group Limited.
First U.S. Edition: June 2011
eISBN 978-1-4299-8298-6
First Minotaur Books eBook Edition: June 2011
The Iron Hand of Mars Page 32